


Serial Games

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dark, F/M, M/M, Serial Killers, Torture, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Sam didn't grow up with blood on his hands like his brother, doesn't mean it isn't on his brain ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serial Games

“Which one do you want, Sammy?” Dean breathes in his ear, one hand curled around Sam’s hip—beneath his coat, where Dad can’t see. Sam swallows, flushing hot all over, and thinks about what it would feel like to shove his brother away as Dean crowds even closer, disguising desire in the press of bodies around them.

When a space opens in front of Sam—pulse of cool air over his front—he doesn’t move into it.

“Whichever you want,” Dean promises. His hand moves forward, sliding around Sam’s body to rest just below his belt buckle. His thumb, restless, rubs over denim and the suggestive caress makes all of Sam’s limbs go weak. “I’mma give you a present.”

A step and there’s no more space between them, no room even for something as insubstantial as air. Dean is a leather-scented body—all warm muscle and lazy intent—pressed up against Sam’s back. His Saint Jude’s medallion digs into Sam’s back between his shoulder blades. Something just as hard—larger, throbbing with something like fever—pushes against Sam’s ass; Dean excited ( _by the hunt, by Sam’s unease_ ) and just as unconcerned as he always is whether Sam knows it.

No, that’s not true. He _wants_ Sam to feel this.

“Pick one,” Dean urges as he reaches his other hand around Sam’s body, pushing his fingers beneath Sam’s t-shirt to brush the sensitive skin of his stomach. “I’ll let you watch.”

Sam tries not to look at anyone, but the blonde by the bar with the neon pink halter-top catches his attention before he can close his eyes. She’s pretty—all dolled up and looking for someone to take home tonight—but Sam can’t help thinking that she’d look even prettier in red.

His stomach heaves at the fleeting thought and now he does push away, hurrying through the press with his brother’s throaty chuckle caught in his ears. Dad doesn’t say anything as Sam shoves past him and out the door, but Sam can feel the man’s disappointment eating away at his back all the same. He doesn’t look back—runs all the way to the motel, where he throws himself down on the bed he shares with Dean and does his best to fall asleep.

Sam’s brain refuses to turn off, though, and he’s still awake when Dad comes in almost two hours later with a slender redhead hanging off his arm. Dean is at Dad’s heels, escorting the blonde in her pink halter-top just like Sam knew he would be.

Sam promises himself he won’t watch—he never does, never has—but he can’t help listening. Dad’s lower grunts, Dean’s breathier pants. The muffled moans and sobs ( _shrieks, once or twice_ ) of the girls. The air turns wet and coppery as the rhythm of Dean’s breathing—so easy to pick out amidst the others—speeds and shallows, and Sam turns his face into the pillow and tries not to breathe it in.

He lies still while Dean finally lets out the tightly restrained groan that signals an end to the festivities—at least as far as Dean is concerned. Dean’s girl—the blonde—goes completely silent a few heartbeats later, although Dad and his date are still hard at it.

Dad takes longer at this part—has since the first time he gave the okay for Dean to try instead of just watch—but then again, Dean’s focus has always been on the aftermath. On the display. Sam can hear his brother making arrangements right now, actually: moving around in the near-dark by the couch where he had his fun.

In his head, he imagines how Dean must look—naked and covered in the liquids of his exertions, muscles still flexed and twitching with excess adrenaline. Wet medallion stuck to his spattered chest, sweat dripping from his hair.

The back of Sam’s neck prickles and he wonders if Dean is looking over at him right now, pearl-handled blade held loosely in one hand. In his head, he can almost see his brother’s slow grin, the double-edged promises in Dean’s eyes.

If Dean is looking Sam’s way now, is he stroking his knife? Is he smiling?

Sam squeezes his eyes more firmly shut and turns his mind away from the answer.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In the morning, Dad is out loading the car and Dean is in the bathroom showering. He always makes such a mess of himself, but can’t seem to be bothered to clean up before passing out on the floor. Dad doesn’t exactly approve, but a quiet sigh is the only reproof he ever offers, and even that is accompanied by a fond shake of his head.

Because Dean is his favorite, his pet. Dean is the perfect, good son, who learned his lessons and holds them close to his heart.

Sam, who has struggled against himself—against what Dad and Dean want of him—for his entire existence, waits until he’s certain neither of them are going to surprise him and then gets up out of bed. Walks over to the couch and looks down at his brother’s date with his hands clenched and clammy.

He was right.

She does look better in red.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Two months later, when Sam announces he’s leaving for college, Dad beats him to within an inch of his life. Sam keeps waiting for Dean to step in and stop it, but Dean seems content to watch—or maybe he’s just mesmerized by the red spray and cries of pain. Still, it is ‘within an inch of his life’ rather than ‘to death’, and Sam has his brother to thank for that.

By the time Dean intervenes, Sam is too out of it to register anything but red, roaring darkness, but he knows Dean saved him because when he comes around the next morning, he’s been washed and bandaged and Dean is sitting in a chair next to his bed with a face that looks like a truck ran into it. There’s a bulky shape rising from his brother’s back—like a hump—but after only a few moments of squinting up blearily, Sam figures out that it’s just because Dean has strapped a couple ice packs to his left shoulder. Probably dislocated it again.

“Dad?” Sam rasps through a bruised, sore throat. Dad held him off the ground at one point; Sam is sure the marks of the man’s fingers are clear on his neck.

“Dad’s gone.”

Sam searches his head for something to say—‘thank you for saving my life’ seems a little too trite—but Dean beats him to it.

“When you’re ready, you know how to find me,” he announces, which is ‘goodbye’ and ‘fuck you’ in one neat package. As Sam lies in bed, confused by the alternating waves of panic and relief coursing through him, Dean heaves his body out of the chair, moves to the door, and is gone himself.

For the first time he can remember, Sam is free.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At Stanford, Sam’s face gives him conversational fodder for a month, but in his stories ( _wild bear, car crash, got mugged, fell out of a plane_ ), his family never once comes up.

It’s better that way for everyone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Despite his injuries and the amount of lying Sam is forced to do, the first few months of college are everything he ever dreamed they could be. Books and papers and quiet solitude, and best of all, no bodies in the morning when he wakes up. But something shifts around Halloween—Dean always loved this time of year—and by the time Sam’s first semester winds to a close, his dreams are coated in red.

When he sleeps, he sees their faces—pretty women, lovely ladies—and feels Dean’s heat against his back. In his slumber, he hears Dean whispering, “Which one, Sammy? You pick.”

It always dissolves from there, like a cut scene, and Sam finds himself back in a motel room. In real life, Dad was always the first one through the door, but in Sam’s dreams it’s only him and Dean, and Dean always brings the right one—the woman Sam never pointed out, but somehow marked as special anyway.

He must have marked her, because in all their years on the road, Dean has never once guessed wrong.

Dreaming, Sam doesn’t face the wall the way he always did in the waking world. He rolls on his side instead, watching as Dean lays the woman down on Dad’s bed ( _not like Dad’s around to use it_ ). He watches Dean open her up, sees his brother’s hands turn red and the crimson smears transfer to the woman’s face as Dean positions her head where he wants it. He sees Dean crouch low and lick a slow line up her throat as it works laboriously in the shadows. Her eyes are wide, terror thick in her limbs and her rapid breathing, and she’s lovely like this but Sam can’t pay attention to anything but his brother.

Dean’s hard, solid body: naked and bloodied in a way Sam never actually saw it in real life. Dean ridden by ecstasy as he bleeds the girl into a river that overflows Dad’s bed and washes over to Sam’s. The blood seeps into the linens, climbing its way up until Sam is lying in warm slickness and then, finally, Dean looks over—catches Sam with those vivid, green eyes—and grins.

“Your turn, Sammy,” Dean purrs, and twirls the knife with an easy twist of his hand. The blade spins, glinting light that doesn’t come from anywhere in the darkened room and sending off a fine, red spray. There’s no way of knowing which end of the knife Dean is offering, and that’s always when Sam wakes up, with the warm slick that used to coat his sheets now confined to the place between his legs.

His hands tremble as he washes every last trace of semen away, and he wants to be sick.

He wants to be, but he isn’t.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jess is his type. Or maybe she’s Dean’s type. Sam wonders, now that he has almost eight months worth of distance, whether it was Dean who was so good at guessing for Sam, or if Sam just recognized the girls his brother preferred. Chicken or the egg. Apple or the seed. Killer or victim.

Jess calls to him with her smile and her laugh, she calls just as loudly as the rest of them, and Sam is ... Sam is weak without his family there to shore him up, and he doesn’t say no. He lets her take him home, thoughts of his brother’s blades bright and gleaming in his head, and then he lets her undress him. He’s never done this before, never come without being covered in blood ( _in his dreams; from Dean’s helping hands_ ), and it takes some doing.

Jess says she’s impressed with his stamina and he grins—you haven’t seen anything yet—rolls over and buries his face against her throat so she can’t see the thoughts moving behind his eyes.

He leaves her alive and sleeping in the morning; buys a rabbit on the way home.

Later, he disposes of the remains one piece at a time in the garbage disposal and does his best to ignore Dean’s phantom laugh as it echoes through his head.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jess wants to see him again.

It’s fine. It’s good. This is normal, what Sam does with her. This is what he wants.

But every minute he’s with Jess leaves another tack buried beneath his skin, and he inevitably needs to dig them out, and it isn’t long before rabbits aren’t enough. He keeps seeing Dean’s mocking, disdainful sneer at his prey of choice; hears Dean critiquing his methods—didn’t Dean show him enough times how it was done? Wasn’t Sam paying attention?

The cats in Sam’s neighborhood start to go missing. He marvels over it with Jess, and makes all the right noises of concern, and thinks about the sound of a rabbit’s scream, and how it’s much more like a human’s than the cats’.

He wonders how it would be with a dog.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She catches him when he tries it.

Oh God, she catches him wrist deep in dog intestines.

Her eyes go wide and round, the way Sam always imagined Dean’s girls’ did. Her mouth opens in the start of a scream.

Sam moves without thinking, and the knife is in his hand, and it’s an accident, it’s only an accident.

But he can’t take it back, and a part of him doesn’t want to.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam puts the dog down the disposal after all his other offerings, but Jess ... it seems wrong to leave her piecemeal.

What he wants to do—what he _longs_ to do—is arrange her on the bed. Dean never used a bed for his arrangements, but he talked about it often enough that Sam knew he would have if Dad weren’t there hogging the space. Or if he thought he could get away with putting one of his girls in with Sam.

“I’d spread her out for you,” Dean used to say when Dad was paying for gas and had left them alone in the car together. Dean never turned around from his place riding shotgun while he talked. His voice never shifted from a casual, almost bored tone. “I’d brush her hair and wash her face so you could see the blood on her breasts better.”

And then, in a confessing whisper, “I’d let you sew her eyes shut.”

There’s a sewing kit under the bathroom sink. Jess put it there when she started staying over at his place.

Jess put the kit away, but Sam is the one who takes it out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After almost two hours of indecision, Sam leaves the house smoking. He hasn’t ever seen a fire before—the blaze that killed Mom doesn’t count, he doesn’t remember it—but as he watches the flames claw at the sky from two blocks away, he thinks it might be one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

After Dean.

He puts the unused kit into the backseat of Jess’ VW and drives away.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s less a matter of finding Dean than it is of making Dean find him.

Sam picks a motel in the middle of Los Angeles—it’s easier to blend in when he’s in an entire city full of nut jobs—and buys a couple of tools to mimic his brother’s cherished blades. He doesn’t spend much money on them because he already knows he won’t be using them long. Even using them once feels wrong—feels like cheating—and there are two false starts ( _his first deliberate kill leaves him so excited that he forgets not to make any noise and has to leave in a hurry, and he’s too wound up on his second outing to remember the sewing kit_ ), but the third girl is his perfect angel.

By girl number seven, Sam is making all the front pages, and he knows it’s only a matter of time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Two weeks later, he wakes up to the prick of a knifepoint at his throat. He recognizes the feel of the blade, the careful rhythm of the breathing coming from the side of the bed, the scent of cheap aftershave.

He swallows once—the pressure of the knife doesn’t waver—and then asks, “Are you going to kill me?”

“Do you want me to?” Dean replies. The sound of his voice makes Sam’s skin break out in goose bumps, makes his head spin, and he twists his hands in the sheets as the knife moves—across Sam’s throat, then dropping lower and traveling over his collarbone.

“I want whatever you’ll give me,” Sam confesses when he has enough spit in his mouth to speak. He doesn’t care what that is. It doesn’t matter whether Dean bears down on the blade now or puts it away and starts touching with his hands. Sam will moan and writhe for him willingly regardless.

The knife lifts, but the expected touch doesn’t come. Instead, there’s the sound of Dean moving away from the bed. Sam opens his eyes and sits up, sees that his brother’s duffle bag is in the room at the base of the other bed. His other bag—the special one—is on the table.

“Get up and get dressed,” Dean says, tucking the knife away into a sheath at his waist and sitting down in the armchair by the window.

Sam isn’t wearing anything underneath the sheets, but he doesn’t hesitate before pushing them down and getting up. He can feel his brother’s eyes on him as he selects his clothes for the day—Dean’s gaze, which is almost as sharp as the knives he carries, trailing over his skin—and shivers.

He hasn’t felt so alive in years.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean takes him out for breakfast. Sam orders a stack of blueberry pancakes; Dean orders his usual mound of egg and meat and hash brown. Sam watches his brother eat, Dean hunched over his place and shoveling food rapidly into his mouth same as he always has, like he’s worried someone’s going to take his meal away if he doesn’t finish it fast enough. He cuts everything with a knife before it goes into his mouth—wields the dull metal utensil with the so much casual skill that Sam feels the people around them have to know what he is, just by watching him.

But no one screams. Their waitress smiles at Dean fetchingly, flirting, trying to get him to notice.

Usually Dean flirts back. Today, he ignores her, all of his attention locked on Sam.

There’s small talk. How was college. Who was Sam’s favorite professor. How has Dean been. Has Dean seen Dad.

That last one gets Sam a sharp, scornful look that runs Sam’s chest and belly cold. He didn’t understand, what Dean said in that motel room so long ago. Didn’t understand until this moment that when Dean said ‘gone’, he meant ‘for good’.

Dean gives a nod as the comprehension spills across Sam’s face. Lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile. Goes back to eating.

Sam continues to stare, floored by the realization that Dean is his now. His alone.

He hasn’t ever owned anything before, but this is a feeling he thinks he can get used to.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After breakfast, there’s a drive in the Impala. Sam sits in the passenger seat where Dean used to lounge and thinks about what sorts of things might be in the trunk. He used to get nightmares and cold sweats imagining up answers to satisfy his curiosity, but something has changed since Stanford—since Jess—and now thoughts of trophies and strange tools bring an electric thrill. They leave him hard and shifting restlessly in the seat.

Dean glances over as he opens the Impala up on the highway, lets his eyes travel up and down over Sam’s body before focusing on the bulge in Sam’s jeans.

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” he asks with a smirk. “Your girls haven’t been taking care of you?”

Sam licks his lips, turning his head to gaze out the window. “They weren’t for me. I didn’t—I couldn’t—They were for you.”

It’s shame painting his face, shame and a certainty of mocking to come, but instead Dean’s hand lands on Sam’s knee. Dean gives him a quick squeeze, then rubs the denim with his thumb.

“Good boy,” he says.

Sam whimpers as his dick swells harder, and Dean laughs.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean takes him to Williams Sonoma. It’s one of Dean’s favorite stores, and they spend almost an hour there, looking over cookware and slowly making their way to the wall of gleaming knives. Examining the coffee pots and slow cookers is foreplay—an old, practiced habit of Dean’s whenever he’s in the market for new hardware, but Sam has never paid so much attention to it before. He’s never been so painfully, agonizingly aware of the well-lit cutlery display, never felt Dean’s curious hands on his body every time Dean decides to pick a mixing bowl up for a closer look.

But inevitably they come to their true destination.

As if she sensed what Dean was truly interested in all along, this is when one of the employees comes over with an offer of assistance. Dean is all charm and smiles, putting her effortlessly at ease by telling one of his many elaborate cover stories. This one—Sam hears only part of it; he’s too focused on all that shining steel—seems to involve a culinary school and the French Riviera and the perfect porterhouse.

Sam drifts away a little, trying not to look as fascinated as he feels as his eyes travel over the array—boning tools and cleavers and paring knifes and kitchen shears. He feels dizzy. Feverish.

“Sammy, come take a look at this,” Dean calls, distracting him from his near-trance. Any casual acquaintance would hear nothing but a pleasant request in those words, but Sam knows his brother’s voice well and catches the threat beneath. As though Sam harbors any thoughts of disobedience.

He walks over and finds Dean touching ( _caressing_ ) a carving knife with a handle of—“Is that bone?” he asks.

“Ox-horn,” the sales lady corrects with a smile.

Dean slips the knife into Sam’s hand—the transfer is made before Sam is even aware anything is happening. He closes his hand around it automatically, an electric shiver running through his body, and stares down at the blade. Lovely.

“So,” Dean asks, “What do you think?”

He’s looking at Sam expectantly—his wolf of a brother and the sales sheep are both looking at him—and Sam realizes that he has no clue what his place in Dean’s cover story is. He doesn’t know what answer he’s supposed to give.

His uncertainty must show on his face, because without waiting for an answer, Dean prods, “I know it’s a little pricy, but this _is_ your first restaurant. I want you to have the best.”

Sam slides his gaze away from the heavy meaning in his brother’s eyes and words, and unwillingly rubs his thumb along the knife’s handle. Feels how smooth it is, how perfectly the blade is balanced.

“It’s great,” he says, and then, “Yes.”

A thousand times yes, even if he still doesn’t know whether he’s agreeing to use the knife or offer up his own flesh for the carving. He’s honored either way; Dean taking such care in selecting the tool and making sure he approves of it.

Dean takes the knife back and then passes it to the sales lady with a pleasant smile. “We’ll take it.”

On their way to the counter to pay, he slides his hand over the back of Sam’s neck and squeezes: a possessive gesture that might be approval or warning. Sam licks his lips and is thankful his pants are loose enough to hide his response.

Dean knows anyway, though—Sam is sure of that.

Dean always knows.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The bar isn’t any different from a hundred others, but it feels different. It feels _very_ different with the new knife ( _came with its own case and everything_ ) sitting out in the car and Dean’s hand shoved casually into Sam’s back pocket.

“What about her?” Dean asks, his breath tickling Sam’s ear. He’s looking at a brunette—buxom, pretty—but there’s no real intent in his gaze, like he already knows what Sam is going to say.

Sam shakes his head, same as he did for the last six, and Dean’s answering smile bears more than a hint of pride. Like Sam is passing some sort of test he doesn’t even know he’s taking.

Then _she_ walks in and Sam stiffens. Dean follows his line of sight, smiles slowly, and leans over to whisper, “You always did have a thing for blondes.”

He pulls his hand free from Sam’s pocket, gives his ass a light smack.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Sam goes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her name is Shelby. Sam gets other details but he doesn’t bother to remember them. He doesn’t need to know anything but the way Shelby is looking at him—the same way Jess used to—and it isn’t any trouble at all getting her to come have a drink with him over at the table Dean has procured.

Dean has found his own girl in the five minutes it took Sam to land his—Dean’s a master at the pick-up, always has been—and she’s nothing like the girls Sam remembers Dean bringing back to the room before. Dark, slightly curling hair. Tan skin. Tall, athletic build.

There’s a degree of hesitant caution to Dean’s eyes as Sam brings Shelby over—like he isn’t sure how this is going to be received. It’s the first time Sam has seen his brother uncertain about anything, and he’s quick with a smile and a ‘pleased to meet you’—eager to communicate as best as he can that it wouldn’t matter even if Dean wanted to bring back a man. That he’s grateful Dean has been so giving over the years, setting aside his own urges to nurture Sam’s.

Dean relaxes and grins. Introduces himself to Shelby and buys a couple of rounds.

Sam has never been there for this part, and as a result he’s a little awkward at making the transition from ‘have a drink with us’ to ‘come home with us’. Dean is as glib as ever, though, and smoothes over all of Sam’s rough spots with a touch or a joke. He’s good enough, in fact, that _Shelby_ actually makes the initial overture. Dean’s girl—Sam didn’t catch her name, doesn’t care what it is—is just as eager, and Dean leans toward her. Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, he kisses the graceful arch of her throat.

When he looks back over at Sam, his eyes have darkened to an unfathomable forest green—no less vivid, but shadow-filled. A hunter’s eyes.

Dean smiles.

Sam shivers.

He’s pretty sure it’s excitement.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When they get back to the motel, Dean makes the first move.

He lifts his girl and tosses her onto the bed in a single, violent movement, and Sam reads uncertainty in her eyes when she bounces once or twice on the mattress before starting to right herself. But Dean is there already, gripping her wrists and forcing them up toward the headboard while he covers her mouth with his lips and tongue.

Shelby has her back turned toward the action, is kissing Sam’s throat as he watches his brother, and Sam strokes her hair absently while he studies Dean’s technique—how his brother rides the thin line between fear and passion until it’s too late, until the girl’s wrists are tied securely to the headboard with strands of rope that Dean produced seemingly from nowhere. Maybe he readied that bed while Sam slept. Maybe the pockets of his leather coat are deeper than Sam gave them credit for.

Now that she’s restrained, Dean’s date has finally made the shift from aroused to frightened. She tries to yell something when Dean finally lifts his lips from hers, but Dean clamps his right hand over her mouth before she can.

“Shh,” he chides. “Shh, sweetheart.”

Sam stares, entranced by the tears leaking down from the corners of the girl’s eyes, by how much white he can see around her iris and pupils, and he must get a little too distracted because Shelby steps away from him—maybe sees what Dean is doing, maybe hears something, maybe has a rabbit’s sixth sense of danger—and then, with a cry of alarm, breaks for the door. Dean is off the bed in an instant, reacting faster than Sam could ever hope to and slamming the door shut again before Shelby can get it all the way open.

Shelby screams, spinning where she’s crowded up against the door. She lashes out frantically and Dean ducks the punch. He drives his shoulder into her stomach, scooping her up and carrying her past Sam. Her feet are kicking, and she’s squirming wildly, but Dean doesn’t seem to even notice as he flips her from his shoulder down onto the other bed—the one that Sam slept in last night. Pressing one hand against her stomach, Dean holds her down and glances expectantly over at Sam.

Sam stands where he is, uncertain.

“You gonna pussy out on me, Sammy?” Dean asks, still watching him.

Both girls are screaming now, like they’re having a contest to see who can be shrillest, and Sam doesn’t understand how Dean can be so calm, so collected. Surely the police are on their way by now, surely it’s only minutes before there are a shitload of guns pointed at their front door.

Then he remembers, with a relieved flush, that he took the room on the end. That the motel is mostly empty right now anyway—which was a factor in his decision to hole up here while he waited for Dean to find him.

No one is close enough to hear any screams.

“Make a decision, Sam,” Dean orders, his eyes and voice hardening.

Spurred on by the fear of losing this moment, Sam jerks into action. He doesn’t have any rope—used just his hands with the others, held them down and ended it quick before positioning them the way he knew Dean would like—but the cheap motel sheets tear easily and he uses those to bind Shelby down onto the bed. Adds a gag for her mouth as well—he can’t hear himself think over that racket—and tosses Dean a strip for his own girl.

Once everything is quiet and mostly still, Sam feels a little more settled. A little more in control.

“Go get your knife,” Dean says, opening his own bag and laying things out on the table.

Sam obeys with a flutter of envy—Dean’s bag is full of beautiful, shining things: a true artisan’s toolkit—but he crushes the emotion almost immediately by reminding himself that Dean has had time to build up his collection. Sam is just starting his, and he’s sure that if he survives tonight—if Dean wants more from him than a couple of screams, if he wants an apprentice—his own collection will quickly grow. After all, Dean always was generous when they were growing up, and from the care he took in helping to select Sam’s knife, that hasn’t changed.

Dean has already started by the time Sam gets back—he’s naked and crouched over his girl, removing her clothes one slice of his silver paring knife at a time—and Shelby is staring over at the foreplay in the other bed with wide eyes while she screams into her gag. Feeling neglected, Sam’s sure.

He hurriedly strips—flushing as Dean’s approving glance lingers on his body—and takes up a mirror position to his brother’s over his own playmate. Shelby is crying, shaking her head and trying to mumble pleas through the gag. Sam sets the box down on the mattress to his right, takes out his knife, and uses it to pat Shelby’s cheek.

“Sorry if I’m a little clumsy,” he apologizes. “You’re my first.”

His first that matters, anyway. Jess was an accident. The others were nothing more than a quick means of sending Dean a text.

Shelby is special, though. She’s going to be Sam’s girl.

The main event is even more of a rush than Sam thought it would be. His new knife is sharper than the cheap blades he used before—cuts through first cloth and then skin like they aren’t made of anything more substantial than smoke. And Shelby’s moans—her sobs, as they continue—make his pulse race. But it’s Dean’s words that go straight to his cock—Dean narrating and dictating each move, Dean illustrating how it’s done step by slow, steady step. Dean praising him, and moaning, and letting Sam look at him as he seeps himself in blood and fists his cock with his left, non-cutting hand.

It’s part instruction, part performance, and Shelby finally stops moving while Sam is distracted by the way Dean looks with his head thrown back and blood splattered across his stomach and chest. It’s an entrancing enough sight that Sam can’t even find it in himself to be disappointed he missed the moment, although he does give her cheek another pat in apology before going back to watching his brother.

Dean ends his own playmate quickly after that—like there isn’t any point in lingering now that Sam has beaten him to the finish line—and then climbs off of his girl without bothering to finish himself off. Sam’s skin flushes hot and cold as his brother takes the two strides necessary to reach his bed. He moves out of the way while Dean cuts through Shelby’s makeshift bonds, although a quick glance from Dean is enough to keep him kneeling on the mattress. The sheets are sticky beneath Sam’s knees. When he runs his hand down his stomach, he finds that he’s made even more of a mess than his brother.

Or maybe Shelby was just more of a bleeder than Dean’s choice.

Dean heaves Shelby’s body off the bed, tossing her on top of his own girl, and then turns back around and fixes Sam with burning eyes that ignite the air in Sam’s lungs. While Sam is still fighting for another breath, his brother grabs his arm and jerks him to the side, sending him sprawling facedown onto the bloodied bed in Shelby’s old place. Sam has time to flip over onto his back and then Dean’s broad thighs cage him in, one on either side of Sam’s hips. Dean steals the knife from Sam’s hand and sets it beneath his throat, the edge pressing into Sam’s skin hard enough to sting.

Sam winces but doesn’t move.

“So how was it?” Dean pants, his knees dimpling the mattress to either side of Sam’s body. His eyes are fixed intently on Sam’s face as he increases the pressure of the blade, forcing Sam to tilt his head back further into the pillow. “Was she everything you thought she’d be?”

Sam doesn’t know how Dean expects him to answer that question when Dean’s flexed thighs are caging his hips. Doesn’t know how he’s meant to remember the girl when Dean has a knife to his throat, when Dean’s hard cock is dribbling come onto his stomach. But Dean’s eyes are fastened to Sam’s like metal hooks, compelling a response the same way Dean’s hand on a blade compels blood to flow.

With his lips and throat desert dry from the bewildering rush of emotion sweeping his body, Sam rasps, “This is better.”

Dean hauls in a ragged breath and a moment later Sam grunts as his brother’s body blankets his. His heart races as Dean’s left hand reaches between them to force Sam’s thighs apart. Nervous energy courses through him as Dean feels for his goal—some fight or flight response Sam can’t decode—but Dean’s right hand is steady where it hold the knife to his throat. The threat is enough to keep Sam still, and he limits himself to a grimace and a soft grunt as his brother shoves two greedy, demanding fingers inside of him.

“Don’t move,” Dean warns, and then dips down to plunder Sam’s mouth with a brief, harsh kiss. The warning comes again afterwards—a muttered whisper this time, spoken beneath Dean’s breath in a distracted, agitated tone. “Don’t move, Sammy. Don’t move.”

Sam does flinch at the third finger—it hurts, a sharp ache—and there’s a secondary, cleaner sting at his throat. Dean sees the trickle of blood running down Sam’s throat—Sam knows from the sudden shallowing of his brother’s breath—but Dean still doesn’t move the knife, and Sam doesn’t ask him to. Instead, he spreads his legs farther and parts his lips in invitation.

“Fuck,” Dean curses as his fingers grow even more rough and uncontrolled. “Fuck, _Sammy_.”

“Do it,” Sam begs. “Do it—please, Dean. _Please_.”

His obvious desperation gets him a second curse from his brother—this one lower, more intense—and then Sam groans as Dean roughly yanks his fingers out. He has all of a second to register how empty and open he feels now, and then Dean shoves his cock in deep and fills him up again.

Red pain blooms at the violent invasion, but Sam’s shaky cry is a thing of pleasure. One of his legs comes up as he instinctively cants his hips. Planting his foot flat on the mattress, he finds the leverage to push up and somehow take Dean even deeper. Above him, Dean’s hand is white-knuckled on the knife, his eyes narrowed to slits of bliss as he fucks in with no care or concern for whether Sam is ready for him.

Sam’s body _isn’t_ ready—the push and pull of his brother’s cock feels a little like fire-coated sandpaper inside of him—but Sam welcomes him anyway. He revels in his body’s protests at the violence of Dean’s fucking, moaning loudly for his brother and keeping his legs spread. It isn’t quite perfect, though—something missing—and after a few moments of hesitation Sam moves his hands up over his head. He grips the headboard, hands positioned roughly the same way Dean tied his girl’s in the other bed.

Dean loses the rest of his fragmented control at the sight, digging his fingers into Sam’s hip and jerking Sam’s body up to meet him while he thrusts in. He’s a thing of beauty—bloodied and unfettered, grunting and growling—and Sam thinks that this will be worth it even if Dean cuts his throat after. He hasn’t ever felt anything as heady as the slide of Dean’s cock in and out of his ass—Dean stretching him, possessing him—and the sting of the knife making little cuts in his neck only makes their coupling that much sweeter.

Sam’s own cock is hard, slapping against his stomach while the force of Dean’s rutting rocks his body against the bed, and he senses his orgasm clawing closer and closer. The sight of Dean moving over and in him is intoxicating: Dean transformed into some fierce, dark god as he strains after his own completion. Dean’s medallion beats against his own chest in time with his thrusts—a soft, rhythmic thump. Sweat runs down his body, every bead tinted red as it gathers blood.

Beautiful. He’s beautiful.

Dean tilts the hand he has at Sam’s throat—somehow leaves the blade where it is while pushing his thumb ( _salt and copper tang_ ) into Sam’s mouth—and then pants, “Come for me.”

Just that—no warning or build to the command—but Sam’s arousal spikes obediently and his cock throbs as he comes in an explosion of pleasure that sends him tumbling into darkness.

Dean’s choked, pleasured scream follows him down, and then there’s nothing more.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam wakes up.

It’s a surprise, opening his eyes. More of a surprise to find Dean curled around him, Dean’s hand stroking his hair with something approaching tenderness.

Sam’s ass aches. His throat stings. There’s a deeper, more intense burn in his hip that his memories can’t explain, and he raises his head a little to look. He sees Dean’s name written there—the deep, fine cuts still leaking blood. Dean rubs the cut with the hand that isn’t busy with Sam’s hair, and even as Sam hisses, the intensified pain sends a pulse of arousal through him.

“Always wanted to do this,” Dean whispers, nuzzling the side of Sam’s face. “Sometimes I think I want to write my name across your entire body. Let me? Let me mark you?”

As if that’s even a question.

“Yes,” Sam breathes, and lets Dean’s hand in his hair draw him back into a kiss. He tastes blood—his own maybe, or one of the girls’—and groans as his cock stirs between his legs.

Dean breaks the kiss to chuckle. “You want more?” he asks, his tone light and teasing as he moves his hand from the name sliced into Sam’s hip to fondle his cock instead.

Spreading his legs wider, Sam makes a low moan of agreement and Dean laughs again. He gives Sam’s cock one final, lingering squeeze before letting him go and sliding off the side of the bed.

“Manners first,” he says, stretching in an animalistic, graceful movement. “We have some ladies to tend to.” He glances at the other bed before looking back at Sam with a hint of a smile playing over his lips. “But after they’re done, I promise I’ll fuck you as long as you want. Or we could shower, find a new motel … find some more company.”

The increased flush of Sam’s libido leaves no doubts what he thinks of that suggestion, and he blurts, “I want to share one. Both of us, together. Can we?”

Dean’s breath catches and his eyes go unfocused. He looks debauched and well-fucked just thinking about the prospect, and Sam already knows what he’s going to say.

After all, his big brother will do anything for him.

“World’s ours, Sammy,” Dean announces after his gaze has sharpened again. He steps closer to the bed, trails his fingertips up the length of Sam’s sprawled leg. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

Sam smiles.


End file.
